All Alone Now
by werechick
Summary: (SLASH: Draco/Harry, implied HET: Ron/Hermione and implied FEMSLASH: Cho/Ginny) ::Complete:: Harry is dead, murdered by a muggle. The funeral story.


"_Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved the wretch, like me..._" began the time honored hymn. Irony resounded in the lyric, written by an old slave captain, one who had lead so many into a living hell.

What good is grace when God takes his last breath, forsaking all he has created? What good is God, this all knowing, all loving being that damned me for both hate and love?

I hated the ministry, both of magic and of God. I wished they would trip on their own soapboxes. I wished Potter's scar would crack open, revealing a skull, completely void of a brain. Preaching good and evil is a fool's duty. My task was merely to stay alive, to keep the Malfoy name and honor, regardless of how this was accomplished.

Yet, I loved Potter, his idealistic world... his thick glasses were rose tinted, I'm sure. He saw the best in everyone, even me.

Hate and love are not opposites. The opposite of love is indifference. I felt many things for that boy, Harry James Potter, but not one of them was indifferent. Whatever I felt was strong, passionate and full of youthful fury. It has been said many times, there is a thin line between love and hate.

Harry is in his casket now, a mahogany affair, covered in white lilies. The song has nearly ended, the service hardly begun. Sirius Black, his godfather is crying. He never used to cry, before.

Sirius is a man of honor; a chivalrous man firmly entrenched in age-old Gryffindor sexism, cleverly disguised as charm. It holds great irony that he should be such a man, the kind of man women often swoon for. Since Azkaban, he hasn't been interested in romance, just the war. They say he's gay, sometimes; others plead a different case. It is of no matter. Either way, no one's seen him with anyone.

A dark, hooded figure approaches the cathedral, entering thru the grand portal and walking without a word towards the casket, not stopping to acknowledge the other sobbing mourners. He dropped to his knees before the dead boy; sobs were heard even thru the heavy woolen cloth so designed for this cold winter night.

The man soon stood, taking the holy water from the basin, and tracing the shape of a cross into the air, praying in Latin "God save us all."

Soon it was time. The six pallbearers, those redheaded "brothers" of Potter carrying him away, to be buried in the cold ground, alone but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

The stone had not yet been placed, but it was pure white marble, with deep green lettering, simply labeling:

**__**

Harry Potter

1981-2002

Son of two, hero of all

With half a dozen words, they tried to express his entire soul, failing to deliver the message the rock had. The colors were fitting. Green like the Quidditch field he so loved, green like youthful Harry, new and innocent, and of course, green like his eyes, portals to his young soul. White too suited him, innocent and pure, symbolic of both this and of death.

Sirius cried still as the casket was laid into the ground. He's completely alone now. He had tried so hard to protect Harry, to keep him safe from Lord Voldemort. He had succeeded, but it was a bitter success. Harry was killed, just not by Lord Voldemort. A muggle killed Harry.

Harry had been killed the way too many are. A man, nay, a monster of a muggle, mounted him. He broke into Harry savagely, ripping away what remained of his innocence, riding him harshly, even as he cried out in pain. Then he killed him, thrusting a blade into his gut. Horrible things happen in the absence of angels.

Harry could've stopped him, but he was too noble. He didn't carry a wand in muggle territories, he though it was too much temptation to do dishonest things.

It's so sadistic, it's almost as if my father planned it to be this way. He loved me with all his heart; in the way society says it is wrong for a man to love another man. They also said I would be damned for hating him, and his kind, as well as for being a, quote: "evil wizard."

Killing is a crime I have committed, yes. It's a crime even Fudge could forgive; human life, human sacrifice... it means nothing to him, despite his words otherwise. Death is just a number to him, the number of bodies left rotting in a field stained scarlet with bloody. His only responsibility in this is to have the carcasses cleaned up. He never has to see the families left behind. People have lost their only sons, wives and lovers have lost their only love, and children have lost their fathers. He doesn't see the ghettos he has created, where orphan children roam the streets in search of something, anything, that they can eat.

Human love... it means nothing to Cornelius. He's never experienced it; he is filled with too much hate. His hate blinds him, controls him, harnesses him and uses him as a pawn for its evil game. No, there is no love in Cornelius Fudge.

I am not saying what we had, what we did, was right or wrong. Labeling things right or wrong is impossible, and ignorant to attempt. It's like trying to label things black or white. There are too many shades of gray; it's a fool's game. I just know I loved him, and that he loved me. What we felt was real and pure, something unlike everything I've experienced before, or since.

They line up, each taking a handful of earth. Each tosses it, sprinkling it upon Harry's newly lowered casket. It lands with a sickening thud on the dark heavy wood.

I have finally collected all that I have felt within myself. My thoughts are colleted, my mind is clear. It's just not clear what I should do about them.

I wrote Harry a letter, signed it in my blood. A letter to the dead usually conveys a sense of completeness, a sense of leveling, of complete honesty to tell the dead one what you ever told them in life, to tell them that you love them and to tell them goodbye. My letter is just four words, more of an obligation than a truth telling.

In life, I never told Harry I loved him. Not once, not ever, did the words cross my lips. Malfoys do not love. They do marry, and they have children. They do it all without the benefit of love for a good woman, nor a man. Especially not a man.

I did love him, though, despite it all. I just never foresaw what would happen to him. He seemed the type to marry that Weasley girl, Ginny and have a Quidditch team full of red headed and green eyed demon children. Either that or marry the mudblood, Granger. This is all after saving the world, as we know it, of course. Work always comes before play.

The cards did not fall that that way. Granger married the Weasel, his sister ran off with Chang. And Harry was left holding aces and eights, a dead man's hand.

Harry Potter lived just twenty-one years. I took just twenty-one pills. It is done, but it is not fair, I shall not join my love in the air.


End file.
